In this realistic war game, only I understand the course of the battle.

Heading west from Pengcheng, the road became increasingly difficult. It wasn't the terrain that was treacherous—the area between the Huaibei Plain and Liangjun was flat, with hardly a decent hill. The difficulty lay in the weather. December in Huaibei was truly winter; the dry, cold winds of the past few days had turned into damp winds streaked with ice, lashing against the face like fine sandpaper. The frozen ground was so hard it couldn't be pried open even with a spearhead; the sound of boots crunching on the frozen ground was like stepping on shards of broken porcelain. Amu's fever finally subsided the day after leaving Pengcheng, but he was emaciated, his cheekbones protruding high, his eyes sunken. He could walk on his own now, stopping every few steps to catch his breath, then gritting his teeth and continuing to keep up with the group. Old Wei gave him his sheepskin coat, while he himself wrapped himself in a tattered burlap sack he'd salvaged from an abandoned granary as a cloak. The sack billowed in the wind as he walked, looking from afar like a ragged flag. Zhou Jing said that Amu needed to eat more to replenish his energy, but there was nothing left to share in the group—the last bit of food that each person had been given when they set off from Pengcheng was almost gone, and the grass roots and tree bark that could be found along the way were becoming increasingly scarce. Winter had frozen everything edible to death, and even the field mice had burrowed deep into the ground and wouldn't come out.

Shen Du walked at the head of the column, using an iron spear shaft he had salvaged from the ruins of Pengcheng as a walking stick. His old injury in his left leg began to throb again with pain from the continuous march and the cold; he had to stop every so often to rub his knee vigorously. But he didn't say anything, nor did he let anyone see it. Everyone in this column was enduring—enduring hunger, cold, injury, and fear. He was just one of them.

They emerged from the low hills and entered Liang County on the afternoon of the second day. Scattered villages began to appear along the roadside, but they were all empty—not empty because of looting by defeated soldiers, but empty because of the fear of war. The villagers had long since fled into the mountains with their food and livestock before winter, leaving behind only a few empty mud-brick houses and sheepfolds washed away by the autumn rains. Zhou Jing led his group to rest for the night in an abandoned village, and continued their journey before dawn the next day. The wind was stronger on the plains of Liang County, and the endless wheat fields lay barren in winter, the snow on the ridges swept clean by the wind, revealing the cracked yellow earth beneath. Occasionally, a wisp of smoke could be seen in the distance, but Zhou Jing forbade his group to approach—he said that smoke might come from defeated soldiers or bandits, and in this chaotic time of war, approaching strangers was more dangerous than approaching the enemy.

The ferry crossing Zhou Jing mentioned was about twenty li outside Liangjun City, in a small place called Liuji. Liuji wasn't an official ferry crossing—it wasn't marked on maps, and there were no post stations along the official road leading there. It was simply a bend in the Ying River's course, where the current became gentler and the river narrower than upstream and downstream, making it suitable for small boats. Zhou Jing said that when he was with the army during campaigns, he once escorted wounded soldiers back to Guanzhong along this road, and the guide leading the group was a local from Liuji. That man later stayed at the ferry crossing, making a living by rowing boats, and he did so for over twenty years.

"His surname is He, and everyone calls him Old Boat He," Zhou Jing said as he walked, his breath scattering in the wind. "His leg was broken by a stone during the siege. After it healed, he walked with a limp, but he doesn't use his legs to row the boat; he relies entirely on his arms. His arms are even thicker than his legs."

"After all these years, is he still alive?" Old Wei asked from behind.

"We have to go check, whether it's there or not," Zhou Jing said. "Liuji is the only place on this stretch of river where people can cross. The bridges upstream and downstream have all been burned down, and the boats have been taken away. Only Old He's ferry is hidden in the reeds, and no one can find it when it's not docked."

The column marched westward along the north bank of the Ying River. The closer they got to Liuji, the denser the reeds became. The reeds were layered upon layer, their withered yellow stalks rustling in the wind, and reed fluff dancing in the air, landing on their armor, in their hair, and on the frozen river surface. Shen Du stopped at the front of the column, glanced into the depths of the reeds, then turned to Zhou Jing and said, "I'll scout ahead." He led Lao Wei and two young, still-running soldiers into the reeds, cautiously making their way downstream along the riverbank. The reeds were so dense that visibility was less than three feet; every step required parting the reeds to see what lay ahead. The river wind, carrying a cool, damp chill, seeped in through the gaps in the reeds. After walking about half a mile, the reeds suddenly thinned out, and the riverbank dipped inward into a small bay, the water in which as still as a bronze mirror. A makeshift pier had been built along the bay using wooden stakes. The planks were covered in moss, and several had rotted away. A few tattered fishing nets lay in the shallow water beneath the pier. At the end of the pier, a small, covered boat could be vaguely seen in the reeds, its canopy almost blending into the surrounding reed beds. Had Zhou Jing not mentioned the boat beforehand, Shen Du would never have noticed it.

A man sat on a wooden post by the pier. It was an elderly man with gray hair, a slightly hunched back, wearing a tattered cotton-padded jacket patched upon patched, and straw sandals woven from reeds. His left leg dangled freely from the knee down, his trouser leg tied in a knot. He held a long bamboo pole in his hand, his head down as he mended a crack in it with hemp rope. Hearing footsteps, he looked up and squinted at Shen Du. His eyes were small but bright, and his face was crisscrossed with wrinkles interspersed with dark spots from wind and sun. He didn't stand up, nor did he ask who the newcomer was; he simply rested the bamboo pole on his knee and rubbed the mud off the tip of the pole with his rough thumb.

"Are you He Laochuan?" Shen Du asked.

The old man didn't answer, but glanced behind Shen Du. His gaze went past Shen Du's shoulder, past Old Wei and the two young defeated soldiers, to the reeds behind them—where more and more people were emerging. More than a hundred men, ragged and covered in mud, leaning on spear shafts and wooden sticks, helped each other out of the reeds. They crowded into the narrow clearing by the pier; some squatted on the bank, scooping up river water to wash their faces; some leaned against the reeds, panting heavily; some were helping the wounded untangle their blood-soaked bandages. Old He looked at each of them—at their faces, their wounds, the broken weapons in their hands. Then he picked up a bamboo pole, braced the broken end against the pier, and jumped down from the stake, landing steadily on one leg on the pier's planks.

"Where is Zhou Jing?" he asked.

"Old Boatman He." Zhou Jing stepped out from the back of the group, still holding the half-whittled wooden stick. Old Boatman He saw Zhou Jing, paused for a moment, then placed his bamboo pole on the pier, hopped on one leg to Zhou Jing, grabbed his shoulder, and shook him hard. The shake was so strong that Zhou Jing stumbled back half a step, but he didn't pull away, only grinning. The two men stood on the pier, one an old boatman with a broken leg, the other an old doctor with gray hair. They looked at each other, neither speaking. After a long while, Old Boatman He released his grip, glanced back at the hundred-odd routed soldiers, then at the awning boat that had been hidden for years, and then turned his gaze back to Zhou Jing's face.

"I've hidden this boat for months, hiding defeated soldiers, bandits, and Jin army scouts," said Old Man He. "But once you come back, I can't hide it anymore."

"It wasn't me who wanted to cross the river," Zhou Jing pointed to Shen Du, "it was he who led these people all the way from the Fei River. More than a hundred people, and only this many remain here. They're heading to Guanzhong."

Old He turned and looked at Shen Du again. This time he looked very carefully—from the frostbite on Shen Du's face to the knife marks on his armor, from the iron spear shaft in his hand to the detail that his stance was slightly to the left and his weight was not entirely on his left leg. After looking for a long time, he slammed his bamboo pole onto the pier, turned and walked into the depths of the reeds. "Follow me," he said.

Old He's boats weren't just one. Besides the awning boat hidden in the reeds, he also hid six small fishing boats in a secluded tributary upstream, all covered with reeds and withered grass. He had lived half his life on these boats—fishing, ferrying, and transporting goods, from the south bank of the Ying River to the north bank, from Liang County to Chenliu; waterways were his everything. During these months of widespread desertion, he had hidden the boats well, telling no one. But now he was rowing these boats out of the reeds one by one, pushing them all to the pier. Shen Du stood on the pier watching Old He pull the boats out one by one, lifting the straw curtains from each boat, checking for leaks in the hull, and whether the oars were broken or rotten. His movements were slow but extremely skilled; with a thrust of the bamboo pole into the water and a push, the boat glided steadily out of the reeds, almost without making a sound.

"We can only make four trips a day." Old He sat at the stern of the covered boat, holding a bamboo pole in his hand. His voice was hoarse but his words were strong. "Although the river is frozen over, the ice is too thin. It breaks as soon as you step on it, so you can't walk on it. The small boat can carry eight people at a time. Several boats take turns, making four trips a day. Your group can all cross the river in a day and a night. But we don't do the night crossing—at night, the boat can't see without a lamp at the bow, and if you step on a piece of ice, the boat will capsize. We'll start tomorrow at dawn."

"Thank you," Shen Du said.

"You're welcome." Old He stuck his bamboo pole into the water and jumped ashore. "I'm not helping you." He glanced at Zhou Jing. "I'm paying off a debt."

Shen Du didn't ask him what debts he owed. He simply squatted on the pier, helping Old Man He inspect the remaining fishing boats, using rags and bark to seal up the leaks in the bottom of the boats. His movements were very skilled—when crossing the river in the rainy season in Jiaozhi, Old Man Zhao had taught him how to repair fishing boats, what kind of wood to use, how to fill the gaps, and how to tie the knots; he still remembered it to this day.

That night, the troops camped in the reeds on the north bank of the Ying River. Old He carried an iron pot and half a sack of millet from his shack—his long-stored provisions, which he hadn't wanted to touch during the days the fleeing soldiers had passed through. He set up the iron pot by the river and cooked a large pot of millet porridge with water from the river bend. The porridge was very thin, the grains of millet swirling and spreading in the boiling water, the steam particularly enticing in the winter night. He also found a few pieces of dried fish in his shack, smashed them with the back of a knife, and sprinkled them into the pot; the fishy smell was transformed into a fresh flavor by the boiling water. The fleeing soldiers, each with a bowl of Old He's porridge, squatted in the reeds and ate. No one spoke; only the clinking of bowls and chopsticks and the slurping of porridge filled the air. Zhou Jing sat next to Shen Du, finished his porridge, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sat facing the Ying River for a long time. A thin mist rose from the river, and moonlight shone through the mist and withered reeds onto the water, turning the entire river into a dark silver color.

"If my son were still alive, he would be among these fleeing soldiers," Zhou Jing said softly, almost to himself. "When others saved them, they saved my son. And when others saved them, someone else saved someone else's son too." Old He handed Zhou Jing a bowl of porridge from the side, saying nothing, simply placing the porridge in his hand. He rolled up his empty trouser leg on the wooden plank of the pier, leaned against a wooden post, and looked up at the reeds on the opposite bank of the river. It was pitch black there, with only the rustling of the reeds in the wind.

"The wounded soldier you rescued outside Rangcheng years ago," Old He suddenly began, "his leg was cut to the bone by a knife. Other doctors said amputation was necessary. You didn't. You used mulberry bark thread to suture the blood vessels and willow branches to hold the bone in place, saving that leg. That wounded soldier later rowed boats for over twenty years." Zhou Jing's hand, holding the porridge bowl, froze in mid-air. He slowly turned his head, looking at Old He's empty trouser leg, then at the good leg Old He was using to pole the bamboo pole. His Adam's apple bobbed, but he said nothing. Old He placed the bamboo pole across his knee and slowly ran his rough fingers through the mud on the end of the pole. He nodded to Shen Du, as if he were talking about something insignificant, but Shen Du saw a glint in Old He's eyes when he lowered his head.

The river crossing began at dawn on the second day. Old He's several fishing boats took turns rowing, each carrying eight people, fully loaded. A thin layer of ice floated on the Ying River; with each push of the bamboo pole, the ice shattered into pieces, drifting downstream along the sides of the boats. Old He stood at the stern of his black-awning boat, supporting himself with one leg, the bamboo pole rising and falling in the icy water, steadily propelling the boat through the thin ice, along the waterway he had known for over twenty years towards the opposite bank. His rowing movements were extremely fluid—the bamboo pole entered the water without splashing, and emerged with a string of fine droplets; with each stroke, the boat lurched forward, never veering off course. After the ferry reached the shore, he let the defeated soldiers board first, then rowed back to the north bank to ferry the next group.

Shen Du stood on the pier on the north bank, watching the ferryboats come and go on the river. The morning mist was dispersed by the rising sun, and the thin ice on the river reflected the sunlight like shattered silver. The defeated soldiers were all quiet as they boarded the boats; no one spoke. Each time the bow of the boat gently bumped against the mudflats on the south bank, those who had disembarked first would tighten the ropes to let the others off, and then stand on the bank to wait for the next group. Shen Du arranged for a few people to find an abandoned forester's hut on the south bank as a temporary meeting point, where all the people crossing the river in batches waited.

As dusk fell, the last group of people boarded the ferry. Shen Du was the last to get on. Old Man He waited until he was aboard, then pushed off with his bamboo pole, and the awning boat left the pier and headed towards the opposite bank. When the boat reached the middle of the river, the thin ice on the surface was thicker than in the morning; the bamboo pole could be heard cracking as it pushed against the ice. Old Man He glanced at the sky and quickened his pace. Shen Du sat at the bow, watching the reeds on the opposite bank draw ever closer, shimmering with a golden-red light in the setting sun. Behind him was the north bank of the Ying River, the Fei River, the battlefield that had buried hundreds of thousands. Before him was the south bank, Liang County, Xiaoshan Mountain, Hangu Pass, Guanzhong, the home those defeated soldiers dreamed of returning to. As the boat approached the shore, Old Man He planted his bamboo pole against the bank to stop it. Shen Du jumped off the boat, turned, and bowed slightly to Old Man He.

"Be careful on your way back. The Jin army patrols may be expanding their reach in this area recently."

Old He shook his head. "This section of the river isn't on the main road; the Jin army won't be able to find it." He put the bamboo pole back on the boat, rubbed the mud off the tip of the pole with his rough thumb, glanced at Shen Du, and said, "Be careful on the road. You have an old injury on your leg; massage it more often in this cold weather, don't let it stiffen."

Shen Du nodded and turned to walk towards the south bank. Old He stood at the stern watching him walk away, then pushed off with his bamboo pole into the water, and the awning boat turned and headed towards the north bank. The boat glided through the thin ice, and the old boatman's figure, standing on one leg at the stern, was cast into a long silhouette by the setting sun on the shimmering river.

After crossing the Ying River, the caravan continued westward. Zhou Jing said it would take another ten days or so to travel from Liang County to Xiaoshan. The further west they went, the more desolate the scenery became—more and more villages were burned down, and unburied corpses began to appear in the fields, mutilated by wild dogs. Every so often along the official road, there were ruined post stations, their walls bearing the marks of knife cuts and fires. But no new sick soldiers appeared in the caravan. Amu's complexion finally began to improve. Old Wei's burlap sack had several holes in it while passing through a thicket of thorns; he turned the sack inside out and continued wearing it, laughing at the holes. Some of the younger soldiers in the caravan began to learn crafts from Zhou Jing—identifying hemostatic herbs, twisting rope from tree bark, and striking fire with flint.

On the evening of the fifth day, an abandoned shrine appeared by the roadside. The shrine's stone walls were blackened by fire, but the walls remained standing, and the roof was intact. Zhou Jing led his men to tidy up their lodgings and taught a few young soldiers to identify the herbs they had collected along the way. Shen Du sat on the stone steps outside the shrine, the bamboo slips in his arms slightly damp; he spread them on his lap to dry. He thought, "Beyond Xiaoshan is Hangu Pass, and beyond Hangu Pass is Guanzhong. Once in Guanzhong, I need to hand over this intelligence to someone who understands its significance." A mountain breeze swept down from the valley entrance, dispersing the mist on the river and the dust in the distant twilight.